The Lay of the Last Queen
by Altariel
Summary: Slowly he worked through the pages, scratching out a word here, a line there... Faramir is writing the Great Gondorian Novel. Slowly.


**The Lay of the Last Queen**

 _Belfalas, early in the Fourth Age_

The house and the land around had come to him from his mother. Part of a much larger estate, he had received this smaller portion as the second son. More than enough for a man like him to live on, once his brother came to the Stewardship. Sometimes, before the war became all-consuming, he had the chance to come here. He would read, and eat, and sleep, and walk along the coast, and sometimes he would even write. As the years dragged on, and he could not leave the city or Ithilien, he would indulge himself. He would imagine what it might be like to retire here, to live peacefully and privately, pursuing at last those quiet interests for which he never had enough time – the books, the languages, the poetry, the music. He never imagined bringing a wife here, and did not dare to dream that there might be children.

And yet here they were – his beloved wife, his two small children – she chasing them up the path to the house, flinging the door open and filling the little hall with laughter. He went inside with some trepidation, but everything was in better shape than he'd feared: his uncle surely would have played a part in this. Somebody had kept an eye on things for all the years he had been away. And now it was ready for the arrival of the family: the quiet little house on the coast, where they could be at peace together far from the busy city. He walked on through and up the stairs to the tiny study in the attic. The paint was fresh and the windows were open. He heard the gulls' greeting, and caught the tang of sea air. He looked out of the west window and saw the sea. He could have wept for happiness. He had packed very little work, and, tucked at the bottom of the bag full of papers, his notes.

* * *

He'd started the work aged seventeen, a new lieutenant stationed down in Poros, realizing that he must carve some small space for contemplation and creation in the middle of this whole nightmare or else he would lose his mind. His time was limited, of course, and the conditions hardly propitious, but slowly – in quiet corners and snatched minutes – he wrote out the story. It took him so long that he was on the verge of taking up his captaincy by the time he was finished. He scribbled down the last few pages in his room in the Steward's house while on leave before heading out to his new command, knowing that his new responsibilities would steal even more of his precious, private time. He read back the whole with diminishing enthusiasm, conscious only of its flaws, the tired language and images, the stilted words, and he despaired of the whole idea. He stuffed the pages into his desk drawer, where they languished, unloved, for a year or two.

One _mettar_ _ë_ , at home on leave for a fortnight, he looked through them again. Suddenly the problems seemed surmountable. He understood who the tale should be about. The jewel-daughter, Míriel – or Zimraphel – the last queen, mute witness to the dying days. The last soul standing on the holy mountain as the water swelled, raising her hands to a pitiless god. He felt an affinity with her that he could not quite understand. She was silent, he thought; she stood by and was expected to yield and be compliant. She had watched the end of the world.

He wrote steadily and quietly each morning, before his presence was required at his father's side. His father, he suspected, would have put a stop to the whole business if he'd known and had been able. Poetry was valueless. One could not learn strategy from it, or gather information, or make use of it in some way… _No_ , thought his son _, because it simply_ is _… We sing because we must. We must not fall silent._ He never said any of this. Why start a quarrel he would not win?

But Zimraphel was speaking to him, and he could not ignore her voice, calling to him across the ages and the devastation. She had something she wanted to say to him, if he could only hear her. If he could only find the time and the peace to listen. The following summer he took her tale in his bag to Belfalas where, for a few short and blissful days, he sat by the sea, pen in hand, and wrote from dawn to dusk. But the piece was still not right.

Nor was it ever likely to be. Soon the world was beginning to end, and all he could find were shreds of time when he was meant to be resting, when his duty was to recoup his strength and make his body ready for its next task. Still, every so often he would sit with her, guiltily, well into the early hours. Because he must. Because still she spoke to him. Slowly he worked through the pages, scratching out a word here, a line there, abandoning whole sections in despair, only to find, months later, that the writing of them had borne fruit. She came in his pack to the damp cave in Ithilien, to the fort on Cair Andros, to the garrison amidst the ruins of Osgiliath, all round the fiefdoms as he pleaded for the lords' aid for Minas Tirith, and to Belfalas and back (twice). The last time he looked at her, he was sitting in his brother's place in Osgiliath, Boromir far away on their dream-quest. He woke suddenly, head upon his arm, pen still in hand. He put her away and went down to the river, and saw the little boat bob past…

And then… Nothing. Terror, and grief, and the sinkhole of despair. A thin voice calling to him as he wandered in the fever-dreams. Another voice, commanding him back. Waking to pain and loss – and the sudden life-changing shock of love. A whole new host of titles, and obligations, and duties… A wife, two children… A king to serve, a princedom to establish, a city to rebuild, laws to make, alliances to forge, treaties to write… Peace was as much work as war.

* * *

The next morning, he woke before everyone else. He stole upstairs, Ranger-quiet. The desk beneath the east window was bathed in morning light. He sat down. The world was still and silent. He stacked the books in order. He laid the papers out. He picked up his pen. He called to her—

And she answered.

He surfaced two hours later. The voices of children had summoned him back. Looking through the window, he saw them outside, running with Éowyn towards the path that led down to the shore. He stood, and stretched. He felt heady, light – and hungry.

The children's voices were becoming more distant. His heart clenched in his chest. Suddenly, more than anything, he wanted to be near them. He wanted to walk unshod on the sand. He wanted to poke at rockpools. He wanted to feel the warm sun upon his face. He wanted to be living his life – this astonishing and unexpected life, beyond the end of the world.

He looked down at what he had written. Leaving her now was a wrench. He placed his hand upon the papers, in pledge of his return. _It will be done_ , he promised himself. _It will_ all _be done_.

* * *

Sian22 and I were discussing Happy Faramir stories. I've tried REALLY HARD. This is as happy as I get!

 _Altariel, 21_ _st_ _August 2018_


End file.
